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Taking notes in second period geometry kills more brain cells than a twelve-pack ever could. Despite this fact, I stared at the pull-down screen and scribbled theorems and definitions into my spiral notebook while Mr. Jablonski wrote practice proofs on the chalkboard.
Mr. Jablonski was pretty cool as far as balding, leaky-pen-in-the-shirt-pocket teachers go. Although he did web design on the side and knew his way around computers, he didn’t go in for the new computer projection technology. I didn’t mind because my desk sat next to the cart holding the overhead projector. Future Hills Senior High was too cheap to heat their building, so I enjoyed the warmth spit out by the projector’s cooling fan.
Plus, the noise covered when I whispered to Nick in the desk behind me. “Can’t your old man make Principal Jones unlock the boiler room and give us some heat?”
“Mitch, you’re crazy,” Nick whispered back. “Jones is so old, he don’t care what anybody says. My dad says he shoulda retired ten years ago.”
That was true, I thought, and began copying notes again.
“Jones is so old,” Nick snickered, “I bet he farts dust.”
“Into his Depends?” I replied. That got a laugh from everyone around us, including Jessica, who sat behind Nick.
Jessica Sandills was hot. Blonde hair, tight jeans, and a camo-wearing dad with a shotgun. Everyone wanted to go out with her, including me. First day of school I got Nick to switch lockers with me so I’d be one closer, only four away. Nick already had a girlfriend. But me? A skinny, red-headed kid with freckles—what chance did I have?
Mr. Jablonski turned from the chalkboard. “Mr. Camarillo, is there a problem?”
“None at all, Mr. Jablonski,” answered Nick. “The wiz-kid asked if I had a pencil. Broke his.”
I deftly snapped the lead point with my thumb and held it up. I was the only one who had an A in Geometry. The only one who bothered to do their homework. I needed the grades for scholarships if I wanted to go to college. No way my parents would have the money. My dad would kill me if I ever got anything below a B anyway.
“You know where the sharpener is, Mr. O’Clery.”
I discretely flashed Nick the finger as I walked to the back of the classroom.
“Mr. Jablonski, that sharpener’s older than Mitch’s mom.”
I didn’t reply to Nick’s jab and Mr. Jablonski told the class to get back to work. I stuck my pencil into the ancient sharpener and cranked away. Nick knew as well as me that it’d eat half my pencil. Over the metal-on-wood grinding, an announcement crackled over the intercom. “Mr. Tron, please report to the front office. Mr. Tron, report to the front office.”
I hurried back to my seat. Mr. Jablonski closed the classroom door.
Jessica asked Nick, “What’s that code for?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered back.
Megan, the class snob prep who sat next to Nick, said, “I saw signs for your dad’s reelection to the school board.”
Nick shrugged. “That doesn’t mean he tells me code stuff.”
Mr. Jablonski strode over to the projector in the middle of us and flicked it off.
Megan raised her hand and asked, “Why’d you shut the door, Mr. Jablonski?”
“You know as well as I do, Miss McNeal. Lockdown. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know.” Then he began explaining the lesson.
Everyone can tell when a teacher is lying. Mr. Jablonski knew. But instead of telling us, he discussed the wonders of alternate exterior angles.
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Jones opened the classroom door, squinted through his black-rimmed bifocals, and signaled for Mr. Jablonski. After a whispered exchange, our geometry teacher pointed. “Nickolas Camarillo, please step out into the hall.”
Everyone watched Nick leave the room. He looked whiter than me, and he’s half Mexican.
“What’s going on?” asked Megan.
“I didn’t ask, Miss McNeal.” Mr. Jablonski adjusted the order of the pens in his shirt pocket before sitting down at his desk. “You all have your assignment. Remember, quiz over section 5-2 tomorrow.”
Nobody worked and Mr. Jablonski ignored our whispers. Nick was in some type of trouble. We couldn’t see out the door because the first week of class Mr. Jablonski had hung printouts of fractal designs over the glass.
“What’s up, Mitch,” asked Jessica. “What’d he do?”
I shrugged.
“He’s your friend,” said Megan. “You ride in with him every day.”
“Nick was running late today. I took the bus.”
Six minutes before the end of second period, Principal Jones opened the door again. This time Mr. Jablonski squinted through his thick lenses and pointed to me.
In the hall with Mr. Jones stood a sheriff deputy, a rail-thin six-foot six, straight-faced type. “You’re Mitchell O’Clery, correct?”
I nodded. My throat was dry but I was too scared to swallow and too scared to ask why they wanted me.
“This way,” directed the deputy and led us down the hall. His heels clicked on the tile floor while Mr. Jones wheezed, even though the pace set by the deputy wasn’t fast.
We turned the corner and standing next to my open locker was Sheriff Boerman. I’d seen his uni-brow, hard-ass face on the news, lecturing reporters about his busts pretty much every night. Mom made me watch Channel 9 News for current events class.
Nick stood rigid against the lockers on the opposite side of the hall. His wide eyes showed he was scared as me. A German shepherd sat between him and the sheriff with its tongue hanging out, like it’d just dug up a long-lost bone. The handler holding the dog’s leash looked young as me, and struggled to suppress a prideful grin.
I knew what the dog meant, but it had to be a mistake. My mind raced. Maybe it had hit on my lunch. Did Mom pack Wednesday’s standard, ham and mustard?
Sheriff Boerman cleared his throat and pointed. “This your locker, son?”
I nodded, afraid to look inside it. I stared down at the sheriff’s polished black shoes instead.
Principal Jones said, “You’re dismissed, Nickolas Camarillo. Mrs. Darmon, please escort him back to class.” He then pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and instructed the assistant principal to hold the bell and start announcements in five minutes.
I don’t know how I missed her. Mrs. Darmon was my counselor, and about as wide as the sheriff deputy was tall. She had on her usual dress that looked half-patterned from a rain poncho—this one mint green striped. Mrs. Darmon handed the principal a three-ring binder labeled ‘Lockers’.
Nick met my puzzled gaze as he walked past. His dark eyes, said it all; I was in big trouble.
The sheriff’s radio crackled to life. “We’ve got another hit out in the parking lot.”
He spoke into the mike on his shoulder. “Acknowledged. Sweep the rest of the cars. I’ll be out shortly.”
The news of another hit made Principal Jones wheeze even more. It took me a second to realize that my locker was the first hit.
“Do you recognize that?” asked the sheriff. He pointed at a blue pencil box sitting on the outside my locker. It was the cheap plastic type grade school kids kept in their desks.
“No, Sheriff,” I answered in a shaky whisper.
Sheriff Boerman stepped next to my locker and pointed at my green bookbag hanging inside. “Do you recognize this?”
“Yes,” I said, my heart racing. What was he getting at? “It’s my bookbag.”
He tapped the pencil box with the tip of his shoe. This was found in your bookbag. Let’s take a look inside, shall we, Mitchell?”
The sheriff picked up the box and opened it, the lid facing me, blocking my view. “Well, what have we got here?” he said, feigning surprise. Even I could tell that. I held my breath until he showed me the contents.
Inside were five or six zip-lock bags with green leaves in them. I didn’t smoke pot, but knew what it looked like. There was also a small roll of bills held tight with a red rubber band. The outer bill was a twenty.
“You recognize any of this?”
Now I was getting angry. “It’s not mine, Sheriff,” I said, shaking my head. “Someone else must’ve put it there.” When I took a step back, the deputy grabbed my arm. He probably thought I was gonna run. “It’s not my stuff.”
“Check him,” Sheriff Boerman instructed the deputy. “Mr. Jones, as soon as he’s finished with the boy here, Deputy Simmons will secure his locker and his books in the classroom. The rest of the building’s clean, so after he’s done you can change classes. I have to get out to the lot.”
Before he left, Sheriff Boerman asked, “That wouldn’t be your car out there I’m going to visit?”
“I don’t drive, Sheriff.”
“Know whose car it might be?”
“I don’t know, sir,” I said getting angrier. “I don’t do drugs and I don’t deal.”
“Uh, huh,” said the sheriff, turning to the dog handler. “Let’s go, Johnson.”
I didn’t hear what Deputy Simmons said to me. All I heard was the German shepherd’s nails clicking against the tile floor.
I sat in Mrs. Darmon’s office while Principal Jones called my mother at work. She ran programs at the YMCA. My dad, an over-the-road trucker, had left on a run to California yesterday. While I didn’t want to see my mom, I wanted out of Darmon’s office—out of the school.
“Are you okay?” asked Mrs. Darmon, from behind her desk. She had a handful of M&Ms ready to toss in her mouth. I’d been in her office before and she’d never eaten in front of me.
“I guess,” I said, knowing Sheriff Boerman was still out in the parking lot. The deputy said as soon as my mom arrived I’d be issued a misdemeanor citation. I was sure expulsion wasn’t far behind. She knew it’d wreck any chance I had for college. How did my counselor think I felt?
A trickle of sweat ran down the side of Mrs. Darmon’s forehead. She offered me some M&Ms from a half-empty jar she kept in her desk drawer.
“It’s not my stuff the sheriff found,” I blurted out. I didn’t think she’d believe me, but saying it again helped, some.
“I know,” she said, watching Mr. Jones whisper to the assistant principal in the office across the hall.
“Really? You believe me?”
Mrs. Darmon quickly shoved her candy back into the drawer. “Well, you’ve always been a good student. Tell Mr. Jones whose marijuana that is. Did you give anyone your combination or share lockers?”
“I didn’t let anyone put anything in my locker.” Nick knew my combination but I didn’t say anything, incase they asked Mrs. Darmon questions in court. I was sure I’d end up there. That gave me an idea. “Someone must’ve put the stuff in there. What about the hall cameras?”
“Some of them are out,” she replied, beginning to sweat more, still trying to hear what was going on across the hall. Mr. Jones left the assistant principal’s office, shaking his head, almost in tears.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, getting up. I’m not sure how Mrs. Darmon side-stepped between her desk and the bookcase along the wall without knocking stuff off one or the other. She stood in the doorway, blocking my view.
“What’s the matter, Jack?” she asked the assistant principal.
“Not now, Doreen,” he replied just before his office door clicked shut.
My mother didn’t believe me. She wanted to, but when I didn’t have any explanation how the pot and money got into my locker, she cried and kept repeating, “We didn’t raise you that way, to be a drug dealer,” all the way to the Y. Once there, she called my dad on his cell phone. He cussed mom out before starting in on me. Neither could understand why I’d gotten mixed up in drugs, and that it was somehow Nick’s fault. The last thing my mom said before leaving me in her cramped office, because she had an aerobics class, was, “Tonight we’re calling Nick’s father. I’m sure he’ll want to know what his son’s best friend is mixed up in.”
When I started to say he had nothing to do with anything, she raised a hand and looked away, tears beginning to form again in her already red eyes. “I want you to just sit here and think about your future. I can’t believe what you’ve done to it. We didn’t raise you that way.”
I watched the clock and waited until she was five minutes into the class before I used her phone to leave a message on Nick’s voice mail. I told him I’d call him during my mom’s three o’clock senior citizen yoga class.
When I called Nick, the first thing he asked was, “You okay, man?”
I told him I was and then gave him the details before asking, “Why’d they call you out of Mr. Jablonski’s class first?”
“They thought your locker was mine. You know what else?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Jablonski got caught with weed in his car too! Can you believe that?”
“No way,” I said, but then leaned back in my mom’s swiveling chair and thought a second. “Nick, it’s not my pot. Maybe it’s not Mr. Jablonski’s either.”
“I don’t know how it got there, but I know it ain’t yours. What’s your dad gonna do?”
The thought made my stomach churn. Mom would ground me for life but Dad might take the belt to me. He hadn’t since I was in junior high when I got caught busting Christmas lights around the neighborhood. I thought those days were over, but this might get him mad enough. He hadn’t cussed like that in years. Dad still had five inches and at least eighty pounds on me.
I had time before anything like that happened. Dad had been laid off for six months and Grandpa lent us money so they wouldn’t shut off our water and electricity. Still, collectors left messages at home and called Mom at work. We needed the money too much for Dad to come home. “I don’t know. He won’t be back till next weekend.”
“That’s cool, I guess.”
I’d almost forgotten. “Nick, my mom said she’s gonna call your dad tonight. She thinks you’ve got something to do with the pot found in my locker.”
Mr. Camarillo came over after my mom called, and brought Nick with him. He was an engineer out at the chemical plant and still had on his tie and a shirt with the company logo. We sat in the living room and waited until Mom finished fussing and brought out some hot tea. Nick didn’t drink tea, and I’d never seen Mr. Camarillo drink it either, but both were cool about it.
Mr. Camarillo sat in Dad’s chair and Mom sat in hers with the end table between them. Nick and I sat on our garage-sale special couch. Mr. Camarillo took a sip of tea before setting it down on the table. He always spoke fast with a slight Mexican accent. “I discussed the incident with Nick before we came over. He says Mitch doesn’t take drugs or deal in them and I’ve known your son for six years and he doesn’t seem the type.”
“I know he isn’t,” agreed my mom, getting emotional and trying not to cry. “But how would they get in there. He said Nick is the only one who has his locker combination, and I can’t believe the Sheriff would plant the drugs in there.”
“No, I agree,” said Mr. Camarillo. “Sheriff Boerman would have no reason to do that. And I believe my son when he says he doesn’t smoke or sell marijuana.”
At my mom’s urging, I told Mr. Camarillo what had happened after I got called out of Geometry. I was sure Nick had told his dad what I’d said over the phone. Thankfully he didn’t mention I’d called Nick from my mom’s office.
After I finished, Mr. Camarillo asked, “Did you see anyone unusual around your lockers this morning?”
“No,” I said. “Everyone who’s always there.”
“Except for Nick,” he added.
“Right, Mr. Camarillo.”
“You have to be honest and answer completely if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“You’re on the board of education,” Mom said. “Is there anything you can do?”
“We’ll see, Mrs. O’Clery.”
Kind of bashfully my mom said, “Oh, call me, Angie.”
He smiled. “Okay, Angie. Call me Juan.” Then he sat back and nodded to his son. “Tell Mrs. O’Clery and Mitch about the man you saw.”
“Yeah,” said Nick, leaning forward. “This guy was hanging out just before the tardy bell rang. Had to be in his twenties, wearing sunglasses and a hooded sweatshirt. Steelers, like anybody likes them anymore. He had on one of those yellow visitor stickers. Jessica Sandills was almost tardy too. I bet she seen him too.”
“If his visitor pass was authentic,” said Mr. Camarillo, “it was newly issued. When they’re distributed, peeling off the paper exposes them to the air, and the pass turns brown within four hours. If so, there may be a record of him signing in at the front office, and he would be recorded on the video cameras there. And if he’s the individual who put the drugs in your locker, Mitch, he or anyone else should be on camera there.”
I interrupted Mr. Camarillo before he went any further. “Mrs. Darmon said some of the cameras are out.”
This made him sit up straight. “They are? The system was upgraded only two weeks before the school year started.” He shook his head. “The board allocated over twenty-five thousand dollars to modernize the security at the high school, junior high, and the elementary school. Including reliable cameras.”
“I saw on Channel 9 News, Mr. Camarillo—I mean, Juan, that they found drugs in a teacher’s car.”
“Mr. Jablonski,” said Mr. Camarillo. “I know, and that is another thing that does not make sense.”
Nick interjected, “I heard the drug dog nearly tore Jablonski’s rust-bucket Chevette apart.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I can’t believe Mr. Jablonski’d smoke pot. He says he doesn’t even drink coffee because of the caffeine.”
“Yeah, and he’s a real rules-Nazi,” added Nick.
Mr. Camarillo frowned at Nick until Mom asked, “Why doesn’t it make sense, Juan? Do you know Mr. Jablonski?”
“I got a call from the superintendent about it. They scheduled an emergency board meeting.” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know him personally, only professionally, but it doesn’t add up.”
Mr. Camarillo took a long sip of tea before continuing. “See, about twelve years ago, Carl Jablonski’s son overdosed on heroin.” Mr. Camarillo swirled the remaining tea in his cup, watching it for a few seconds. “He’d turned his son in to the authorities. Got him into drug rehab, but less than two weeks out of rehab, his boy died of an overdose.”
My mom gasped, “That’s terrible.”
“That’s just part of it, Angie. You see, three weeks after his son died, his wife took her own life.”
We all sat there, quiet. I never knew that about Mr. Jablonski. He always seemed so happy and positive about everything. It happened before we moved up from Tennessee and I could see why nobody talked about it; everybody liked Mr. Jablonski, so who’d want to bring it up?
Mr. Camarillo slapped his thighs, stood up and signaled for Nick to do the same. “Well, Angie, thank you for the tea. I will call the superintendent when I get home, and see if I can get a look at those tapes. I’m not sure who would do this to your son, and Mr. Jablonski, but there’s a limited number of people who knew about the Sheriff’s drug sweep.”
“Thank you Mr. Cam—Juan.” Mom led them to the front door. “Do you think we need to get a lawyer for Mitch? His expulsion hearing is next week Thursday.”
There was no way we could afford a lawyer, and Mom’s voice almost sounded like she was pleading for him to say no.
“Let’s see what happens. The union is certain to defend Mr. Jablonski. If there’s a connection, I’m confident it will benefit your son’s claim of innocence.
I couldn’t sleep. My life was falling apart, and it wasn’t my fault! I tried to convince myself that driving a truck or working for Grandpa wouldn’t be that bad. I heard Mom up and about a couple times during the night too. At 6:00 am I decided to shower. Mom was standing at the kitchen counter, still wearing her bathrobe and flipping through the yellow pages. I knew she was serious because she had the Cleveland city phonebook instead of the little local one.
I walked over to the fridge to get some milk. “What’re you looking for?”
She didn’t look up while jotting names and numbers down on a note pad. “Oh, nothing.” She turned the page. “You don’t have to come into work with me.”
I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and walked over to her. “Okay, cool.” I saw the page listing at the top for private investigators just before she closed the book. “Mom, those guys charge a hundred bucks an hour.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I betcha they do.”
“I’ve got to get ready.” She slid the phonebooks back in the drawer. “I’ll call you here today, so make sure you stay home.”
“Can I go to the library?”
“What, so you can get on the chatrooms?” She smiled, but said, “Not until this thing is cleared up, okay?”
“I’ll be here, Mom.”
After stepping into the hall that led to the bathroom, she leaned back in the doorway. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, honey.”
“It’s okay,” I said, pouring milk and trying to act like her words didn’t mean anything. “Mr. Camarillo will get things figured out.” I hoped he did before my expulsion hearing or, better yet, before Dad got home.
My mom spent the next two evenings staring at the phone, waiting for Mr. Camarillo to call. Only Dad called, louder and madder each time. I was nervous, but she was a wreck, chewing her fingernails and fidgeting with pictures, lamps, throw-rugs—basically everything in sight.
I clicked off the TV. Neither of us was watching it anyway. “Why don’t you call him, Mom.”
“No, I don’t want bother Mr. Camarillo. I’m sure he’ll call when he learns anything.”
“Well, I did call Nick today.” Mom said I shouldn’t go over Nick’s or been seen in public with him, at least until after the election. It made sense, as everyone thought I smoked and sold pot now. “He said things are calming down at school.” She looked at me hopefully, until I explained, “His dad can’t say anything to him about what goes on in closed session.”
“Is there another board meeting scheduled?”
I shrugged. “Nick said his dad is gonna to try and meet with the union rep and maybe the lawyer.”
“It’s probably a difficult thing for him to do, with elections and all coming up.”
“Nick says the superintendent doesn’t like his dad much. The teacher’s union rep doesn’t either. Nick says it’s just like at home. He budgets everything and always argues about spending money they don’t need to—at home and at the school board.”
All through the weekend Mom was in nonstop-cleaning mode. The only time I remembered Mom cleaning like that was when Grandma had been diagnosed with cancer. And I was forced to get into the act too. While Mom washed the curtains, windows, and every wall, baseboard and floor in the house, I cleaned my room, the attic, and the garage.
When Sunday afternoon came around I convinced Mom to call Nick’s dad. It wasn’t a long conversation and she let me listen in on the other line if I promised not to interrupt.
Mr. Camarillo got right to the point. “I am going to go over to the law offices after work tomorrow, Angie.”
“Do you think it will help?”
“I really cannot say. Will your husband be home before the expulsion hearing?”
“No, he’s on the road back from San Diego today, but he has to deliver some freight in San Francisco first.”
“Will it only be you and Mitchell at the hearing, then?”
My mom paused before saying, “My father-in-law, Bert O’Clery, has a friend who’s a lawyer. Bert said he’d go with us.”
Mr. Camarillo paused. “Is the lawyer versed in school law?”
“He’s a real-estate attorney. We probably need a criminal lawyer?” I could hear Mom cringe as she said ‘criminal’.
“At the hearing, neither type will do you much good. And trying to intimidate the superintendent with an attorney won’t work in your favor.”
“That wasn’t what we were intending.”
“Unless they know school law, it would be like asking a professional barber to trim a show poodle. Although he may be familiar with the tools and knows what has to be done, he has no direct experience on a canine, and the final product will demonstrate the fact. Does that make sense?”
“I think so.”
“Mr. Nelson is a fair man.”
I first met our superintendent at a track meet in junior high. The way he shouted and cheered, I thought he was somebody’s uncle. He’s at just about every sports event, always clapping and cheering no matter what the score is.
“But Mitch is innocent,” Mom said.
“As things stand, Mrs. O’Clery, the evidence indicates otherwise.”
My mom began to sniffle. “What will happen?”
“It is hard to say. Mr. Nelson doesn’t take well to drugs being brought on campus, let alone sold.” Mr. Camarillo took a long breath. “At the minimum, Mitch will be expelled until the end of the semester. Then he will probably be sent to an alternative school.”
I knew what that meant. They’d bus me to the same tri-county school they sent Tom Corbin too after he punched-out Mrs. Stanson in the cafeteria for breaking up a fight. Everyone at that school was a thug or crazy. I’d be on the bus at 6:00 am and not home until 5:00 pm. No track, no friends, no life.
Then Mom blurted out, half sobbing, “I thought you were going to help.”
“Mom!” I shouted. I couldn’t help myself.
Mr. Camarillo calmly said, “It’s okay, Mitch.”
Mom started to apologize and Mr. Camarillo insisted it was okay, and that he hadn’t given up yet. He just wanted to present a worst-case scenario. Then he asked, “Angie, your father-in-law is Bert O’Clery from A-1 North Building and Construction, correct?”
Mom said, “Yes, he owns it.” Grandpa named his company A-1 North because it would get him listed first under construction in the yellow pages.
“He poured my sidewalk last year. I think he did the superintendent’s as well. Would he go to the hearing with you?”
We were both quiet. Grandpa was cool when he wasn’t drinking. Mom knew as well as I did, Grandpa only drank at night, after work.
“To be honest, Angie, and please do not take offense,” said Mr. Camarillo. “In a case such as this, and with your husband often on the road, the image of respected male figure, a hard working businessman who looks after Mitch, may help.”
I could tell Mom was itching to ask Mr. Camarillo to come to the hearing, but she didn’t. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Cam—Juan. I’ll ask Bert. And I am sorry for what I said a moment ago. I know you’re doing all you can.”
After the phone call, Mom dusted the furniture and then called Grandpa. He said he’d pick us up and drive.
Mom finally relaxed, a little. At least she stopped scrubbing down everything in sight. Grandpa was a hard drinker, but he also knew how to talk with guys in suits. And if things went bad for me at the expulsion hearing, Dad might not be so mad if Grandpa had been there with us.
The hearing was at 10:30 am. Grandpa showed up a half hour early. I was in my Sunday suit and tie. Mom was in the dress she wore to weddings and funerals. Grandpa had on a striped tie too, but with suspenders and no jacket.
Nobody said anything, except Mom telling Grandpa that if he was gonna smoke we were going in separate cars. She didn’t want me smelling like tobacco. Grandpa went out on the front porch to light up a cigarette before we left. Mom gave me a hug and tried to fix my hair with her painted nails, but they’d been chewed to nubs. She looked down at the phone. Mr. Camarillo’s meeting must not have gone too well.
I ran back to the bathroom and put on some more deodorant before we left.
The hearing wasn’t at the Future Hills High School, but at the board of education offices just north of the town square. Of course we couldn’t find a nearby parking spot and had to park behind Westland Lanes and walk four blocks. It wasn’t bad for me or Grandpa, but Mom wasn’t used to walking far in heels.
We were ten minutes early. Walking in, my mom kind of held her breath, then let out a sigh after she looked around. She probably hoped to see Mr. Camarillo. I kind of did too.
Grandpa walked up to the secretary clicking away at her computer. How she typed with inch-long fake nails, I’d never know. She smiled, up at Grandpa, showing her perfectly straight teeth, as he announced gruffly, “You can let the superintendent know the O’Clerys are here for the hearing.”
The secretary couldn’t have been more than twenty, but the extra makeup made her look older. I looked at the name plate on the desk, Miss Shaw, and recalled that she was the varsity cheerleader captain my freshman year.
“Thank you. He and Mr. Jones are waiting for you.” Then she got up and motioned for us to follow her down a short hallway. “Your hearing is in the small conference room.”
Cindy Shaw looked taller than I remembered, probably because she had on heels twice as high as Mom’s. I looked at Mom to see if she noticed. Instead of watching Cindy Shaw in her striped skirt like me and Grandpa, Mom was trying to read some of the plaques on the paneled wall as we walked past.
I should’ve been anxious or worried instead of watching Cindy Shaw escort us into the well-lit room with Superintendent Nelson and Principal Jones sitting at the far end of the table, talking. But when Mr. Camarillo wasn’t at the board office, I knew it was over. I’d lose all of my credits for the first semester, and all my friends, and I’d be sent to the tri-county alternative school.
“Ms. Angela O’Clery and her son, Mitchell O’Clery, are here, Mr. Nelson,” said Cindy Shaw, still smiling. “And Mr. Bert O’Clery is here as well.”
It took me a second to realize that a secretary would know who was supposed to attend the meeting by name. Of course, that I’d been caught with drugs in school was all over town. It’d have been worse if Mr. Jablonski hadn’t been caught too.
If you took away Mr. Jones’ thick, black-rimmed glasses, Mr. Nelson could’ve been his younger brother. They stood and shook Grandpa’s hand first, exchanging hellos, before my turn and then Mom’s. Even though I knew what would happen, my hand was still sweaty.
Cindy Shaw hurried out, closing the door behind her as Mr. Nelson directed me to sit in the middle of three chairs. Mom sat on my right and Grandpa on my left. Mr. Nelson then went and sat across from me with Mr. Jones to his right. They had five file folders stuffed with papers lined up on the table, one for everybody.
Mr. Nelson’s deep voice sounded energetic but sincere as he pointed to a tape recorder next to Principal Jones. “This hearing will be recorded, and you’ll be sent a copy if you desire.”
Mom nodded and Grandpa said, “Sure, let’s get on with it.”
Mr. Jones pushed the record button and Mr. Nelson opened up his file and directed us to do the same. He then spoke aloud the date, the purpose of the meeting and the names of those in attendance while spreading out the copies of the sheriff reports, statements, and other documents.
“As you know, this meeting is to determine punishment for the drugs found in Mitchell’s locker. Although the evidence of guilt appears strong, I am willing to hear you out, Mitchell, for any explanation you may have.” He leaned back on the office chair. “Together we’ll review the events as they transpired October 18th, review the Sheriff’s report, and board policy with respect to drugs on campus.”
Mr. Nelson paused while Mom and Grandpa looked through the file. It was nothing new. My misdemeanor citation, highlighted policies found in my student handbook, copies of my transcript and student record, and other things like that. I looked around. The paneling in the meeting room was the same as that in the hall, and it matched the table. There weren’t any windows, only more plaques and nature scene pictures, mainly ducks taking to flight.
Mr. Nelson rested his hands on the table. “I will then listen to what you and your family have to say. After that, I will give you my decision.”
Mr. Jones stood and handed across the table a set of paper-clipped letters to my mother and handed a second set to the superintendent. “These are letters from faculty and students in support of Mitchell.”
I looked as Mom leafed through them. There were about ten, from Nick, Mrs. Ryan, my English teacher, Mr. Welsh, my track coach, even one from Mr. Jones. He met my gaze when I looked up in surprise, then began adjusting his glasses and squinting down at the papers in front of him.
After we had a few minutes to read the letters, Mr. Nelson said to me, “Mr. Jones brought those over this morning and they illustrate that you’re a well-liked and respected young man.” Mr. Nelson’s face became serious. “Let’s get started.”
“What about Carl Jablonski?” asked Grandpa. “Same drugs were found in his car. He claims they’re not his. Same as Mitchell, here.”
Grandpa knew and talked to a lot of people, maybe that was also why Mr. Camarillo suggested he go with Mom and me.
Mr. Nelson lifted the citation, preparing to read from it, but first answered. “While the drugs were of the same variety and found on the same day, the two incidents are not connected.”
Grandpa wasn’t convinced. “Okay, say your piece.”
Before Mr. Nelson could start, a knock at the door interrupted him. Mr. Jones reached over and stopped the tape recording. Mom, Grandpa and I had to crane our necks around to see Cindy Shaw poke her head in.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Nelson, but there is a gentleman in the lobby, a Mr. Camarillo who would like to join the meeting.”
“Juan Camarillo?” asked Mr. Nelson. He looked at Mom, who looked like she’d just come up for air after ten minutes under water, and Grandpa who leaned back, sticking his finger between his collar and neck, loosening his tie. “I have not requested his presence, but if you would like him to sit in and participate, Ms. O’Clery, it is perfectly fine with me.”
Mr. Jones squinted and nodded his approval.
Mom said, “Yes, please.”
My head was spinning so fast, it took me a second to see that Mr. Nelson and Mr. Camarillo were shaking hands across the table and that Grandpa had moved down a seat so that Mr. Camarillo could sit next to me. Mom nudged me to get up.
“That is okay, Angie,” said Mr. Camarillo. “I asked Ms. Shaw to roll the cart with the television and DVD player over from the board room.” He produced a plastic case from his sport jacket’s side pocket and pulled out a disk.
Mr. Jones held the door while Grandpa helped the secretary wheel in the cart that held an old TV on top with a tangle of wires running down into a VCR and a DVD player sitting on top of it.
Mr. Camarillo spoke as he waited for Cindy Shaw to unravel the electric cord attached to the cart and plug it in. “Gordon, you’ll want to see this before you make any decisions.”
“What is it,” asked Mr. Nelson.
Mr. Camarillo waited for Mr. Jones to start the recorder, and added his name as attending the hearing. He then clicked the remote, turning on the TV and the DVD player, and put in the DVD. “What you’ll see will speak for itself.”
Mom looked white, but sat up, eager to see. I didn’t know what to think. It felt like I’d run three legs of a 4 by 400 meter relay, and passed the baton to Mr. Camarillo. I held my breath, hoping he’d carry me across the finish-line a winner.
The screen showed a black and white view of a hallway in my high school. A small date and time counter showed it to be last week Monday at 5:33 pm. I didn’t notice how poor quality it was until Mrs. Darmon walked into the picture. It had to be her; who else at school wore rain-poncho dresses? The choppy recording must’ve shot a frame every second or so.
Mr. Camarillo said, “This appears to be Mrs. Darmon unlocking and entering the front office.”
“She works late often,” said Mr. Jones, squinting at the screen. “She has a master key.”
“And,” said Mr. Camarillo, that key allows entry into the assistant principal’s office where the recording equipment is housed.”
“Isn’t the equipment secured in a locked cabinet?” asked Mr. Nelson. “And what does this have to do with this hearing, Juan?”
“Sheriff Boerman spoke with Jack, and Doreen knows where the office secretaries keep an emergency key. She has access to that cabinet.” Mr. Camarillo held up a finger, as the mention of the sheriff caught everyone’s attention. He fast forwarded six minutes screen time, until the picture went black. “This and several other cameras were disabled at the source. Someone loosened a few plugs, according to the technician who repaired them Friday.”
Again, Mr. Camarillo held up a finger. “Please, allow me to get through this before asking any questions.”
Mr. Nelson sat back as did Grandpa. But me, Mom and Mr. Jones sure didn’t. The screen then showed a clearer picture, but this one outside the gas station. Mr. Camarillo paused the picture. “This is last week Tuesday morning, 7:02 am. Note the Ford Taurus at the pump and the man in the hooded sweatshirt getting out. The plate numbers indicate the car is registered to Doreen Darmon.”
We watched the guy in the Steelers sweatshirt pump gas and go inside. “Sheriff Boerman interviewed the cashier from that day, and watch.” The store camera showed the man getting a pack of cigarettes and paying with a card. “Debit card linked to Jason Darmon, Doreen’s son. If we brought in Ms. Shaw, your secretary, Gordon, I suspect she could verify from the picture that is Jason Darmon.” Mr. Camarillo paused the DVD. “They were in the same class and would have graduated together, except Jason had to make up pre-calc in summer school.”
Grandpa huffed and cussed under his breath.
“This man worked for you, didn’t he, Bert?”
“Damn right. Did work for me. I canned his ass last week Tuesday for not showing up.”
We watched Jason Darmon on the screen, walk out of the store and drive the Taurus to Pappy’s Diner across the street and park, barely within the camera’s view. He got out of the car, carrying something that looked like a book, or a box, and started walking north.
Mr. Camarillo asked, “Mitch, how long does it take to walk from the Marathon station to the high school?”
“Twenty minutes,” I said. “Fifteen if you walk fast.”
“Jason don’t do nothin’ fast,” said Grandpa. Mom shushed him.
The next view showed the teacher’s parking lot and what looked like Jason with his Steelers sweatshirt hood up and sunglasses on. It was a grainy, choppy picture again. He walked up to Mr. Jablonski’s Chevette. One frame showed the door open. Then he trotted out of the lot, away from the school.
As Mr. Camarillo clicked off the TV and set down the remote, Mr. Nelson said, “Quite interesting, Juan. I clearly recall two years ago when Doreen’s boy didn’t get to walk with his class for failing Mr. Jablonski’s class.” He nodded to Mr. Jones. “What you’ve shown certainly casts doubt on the case against Carl. It doesn’t go as far as to exonerate Mitchell O’Clery.”
I thought Grandpa was gonna jump across the table, but Mr. Camarillo put a hand on Grandpa’s shoulder as he sat down between him and me. “There’s a few other things you should know. Deputy Simmons spoke with Mrs. Ryan and she said she saw a man who she believed to be Jason Darmon in the high school wearing a visitor pass last Tuesday. In addition to my son, Nick, Jessica Sandills described to the deputy a man in his early twenties, wearing a Steelers sweatshirt and sun glasses, with a visitor’s pass near Mitchell O’Clery’s locker less than a minute before the tardy bell rang.”
Mr. Nelson and Mr. Jones exchanged glances.
“Also, if you recall, Mr. Jones, my son, Nick, was called out of Carl Jablonski’s class before Mitchell, because they thought the drugs were in his locker. Technically they were, according to school records. The two boys switched assigned lockers, against school policy, but an infraction not worthy of expulsion.”
“So, what you’re trying to say,” said Mr. Nelson, “is that your son, Nickolas, was Jason Darmon’s intended victim—if what you’re saying is true.”
“What I am saying is that Nick was the target to get to me.”
Mr. Jones cleared his throat. “That you’re not a popular board member with the faculty and staff isn’t a secret.”
“The public doesn’t elected members to the board of education to be popular. They elect us to establish and enforce district policies, negotiate contracts with the unions, and to be fiscally responsible in spending their tax dollars.”
Mr. Nelson adjusted his tie and jotted a few notes on a pad of paper. “It is your contention then, that Jason Darmon placed the marijuana in Mitchell’s locker by mistake, intending to place it in your son’s locker.”
“At his mother’s urging.”
Mr. Nelson’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Please explain.”
Nick’s dad began counting off on his fingers as he spoke. “Whose car was Jason driving? Where would he get a yellow visitor’s pass without checking in at the front office? Why would the certain cameras, namely the main entrance, the front office hallway, and the hallways leading to and including Nick’s locker, be disconnected and who had access? Who would have access to the locker numbers and combinations?” Mr. Camarillo sat back and patted my leg under the table. “And, Mr. Nelson, who knew when the drug dogs were scheduled to make a sweep?”
Mom was ready to cry, digging through her purse for a tissue. Grandpa was wearing what he’d call a ‘shit-eating grin’. I probably was wearing one too.
“You make a very strong case, Juan.”
“Although I am in no way implicating any of my election opponents, three of us are running for two spots. One of those running is Janet Thompson, Doreen’s sister-in-law. And new contract negotiations begin in December.”
The superintendent scratched the back of his neck. “So, you believe that Jason Darmon dropped the marijuana in Carl’s car to pay him back for making him attend summer school his senior year?”
Mr. Camarillo shrugged. “You could check the prosecutor’s office. Carl’s lawyer, who provided a copy of the DVD for this hearing, indicated the sheriff was going to pick Jason up for questioning this morning.”
Mr. Nelson said I could go right back to school that morning if I wanted, but I wanted to change out of my suit and tie, and Grandpa said he’d treat me and Mom to lunch first at Pappy’s Diner.
Mom was so happy, along the way she didn’t even complain about Grandpa smoking.
Grandpa rolled down his window and spat. “I can’t believe Mitch got into all this mess because a fat lady wants her stomach stapled. Bet, her lawyer’ll cost her a pretty penny. She should’ve paid for it outa pocket.” Grandpa looked at me in the back seat through the rear view mirror and laughed. “Ain’t she ever heard of diet pills?”
“They cut it out of our insurance through the Y, just like Juan insisted on with the school district’s policy,” said Mom. “Paying for the gastric bypass isn’t the problem. It’s the complications that follow that really cost. I’ve seen it happen.”
“More people should sign up for your aerobic classes, Mom.”
Mom smiled back at me.
“Now that I know you can’t get your stomach stapled,” Grandpa said to Mom, “I’m watching what you order.” He flicked his cigarette out the window. “Who ever heard of a fat aerobics instructor.”
I knew things were gonna be okay. Grandpa almost never joked with Mom.
While we ordered lunch, I borrowed Grandpa’s cell phone and left Nick a message, asking if he’d give me a ride home from school today.
“Drug Dogs” first appeared in Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine, January/February 2007 Edition
